


as those who part look long in the eyes they lean to

by Neurotoxia



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Autumn, Celebrations, Cultural Differences, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas returns to the Greenwood after five years of absence for the upcoming celebrations of harvest. He finds that more than just the colours of the leaves have changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as those who part look long in the eyes they lean to

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nisiedraws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws/gifts).



> Once again, I am guilty of inventing customs for the Woodland Elves. May the purists have mercy on my soul.

When autumn approaches, the parts of Greenwood that are still teeming with life, not yet blackened by spiders and dark miasma become a spectacle of colour – leaves turning from shades of green from moss to pine and fern to goldenrod yellow, maroon red and burnt umber brown before they will fall to the floor to rustle even under the light tread of the elves. Legolas had always enjoyed the shift from summer to winter, when sweltering heat became crisp coolness and morning dew collected on the tips of bushes and grass as thin sheets of ice. How much he belongs in the forest he only noticed after he left it behind to discover the plains and mountains of the North and the mild climate of Imladris’ valleys. Not only did he miss the familiar paths of his forests, but also the festivities of his people that were unlike any other due to the considerable isolation from their own and other races. The festivities have urged him back to the Greenwood for a few months after an absence of five years. A short span of time, and yet the kingdom appears livelier. As Galion relayed to him upon his return, his father had taken up trade relations again, granting foreign tradesmen entry into the markets – he even thought to have spied a dwarf among them, unimaginable as it seems. However, Legolas was very nearly stunned into silence – not by the presence of a dwarven blacksmith, but when his father greeted him personally. Legolas wasn’t welcomed from the imposing height of the throne; Thranduil came to see him in his quarters just when Legolas considered making his way to the throne room. 

His father has a different air about him. The cold surrounding him is less harsh, less cutting to the bone. His father is trying, Legolas recognises, and finds himself grateful to witness it. Before his departure, he isn’t sure he could have appreciated the effort – he would have been bitter, cynical even at the heavy-handed way his father attempts to better himself. The time apart has softened Legolas’ virulence.

The harvest celebrations are beginning, and to the surprise to Legolas and Thranduil’s advisors, the king appears to have invited King Bard of Dale to partake. His father cites the man’s status as an elf friend and ally, speaking of the need for strong connections in the North as the rest of Arda frequently forsakes them and leaves them to fend for themselves. True as it may be, King Bard is the only Northern ally invited to the feast honouring Yavanna and her gifts to the elves. Certainly, others of the court have noticed this peculiar step and Legolas imagines more than one of the advisors will have suggested to extend an invitation to Erebor as well and that his father will have waved them away as if they were flies buzzing on his shoulder.

The celebrations are held outside in the forest for three days and three nights. Song and dance, drink and meals are the staples, one last period of extended time in the forest before the approaching bite of winter will force them back into the halls until spring. But the feast to start it off is quite different from the merriment following it. The meal is to be taken in silence to embrace the sounds of the surrounding nature Yavanna has granted them. It serves to remember the elves of their place in nature.

His father concluded his business of the day early to prepare for the feast that initiates the festivities. King Bard on the other hand, is late. Servants have already distributed the first plates when the King of Dale is led to the clearing where they’ve settled with cushions in circles of ten people. Some of the nobility in their round look scandalised at the King’s tardiness, with his greying hair windswept, his cheeks red from the chill and the travelling cloak still around his shoulders. Legolas notices that the clasp fastening it is of Elven make, greatly resembling the brooch of spidery silver branches inlaid with a green gem that his father owns. He looks at his father’s hands, looking for the ring of the same design Thranduil usually wears, but finds it isn’t there any longer. Has his father taken it off after so many seasons?

“I apologise for the late arrival, King Thranduil,” he says. “My horse lost a shoe on our way here.”

If the nobility looked scandalised before, they look murderous now. The advisors however, look nervously at the kings, hoping that Thranduil will not be offended too gravely at Bard’s misstep of speaking after the feast has already started. But to Legolas’ surprise, his father doesn’t even look displeased, he simply inclines his head and motions to the empty cushion to his right, indicating the King of Dale to take his seat. 

“Right…” King Bard says, apparently confused at the continued silence bearing down on him. “You carry on, I’ll help myself.”

Legolas’ mouth runs dry when Bard –mistaking the decorated table to his right for a buffet– picks an apple from the altar piled high with the fruits of harvest. Offerings of gratitude to Yavanna, not meant to be touched or eaten before the celebrations are over. By tradition, they will be turned into preserves to supplement winter’s shortage of produce.

The senior advisor’s fingers have tightened around his cup and Legolas stares at him in askance. Has no one thought to inform the King of Dale of the customs to be adhered to? King Bard was not born into nobility, never meant to be a ruler. Where would he have been educated about the conduct at other races’ courts? All eyes rest on Legolas’ father, expecting him to descend upon the King of Dale for his impertinence and misconduct. His father is known to have extracted harsh punishment for much lesser offences. The king is not famed for his tolerance of ignorant behaviour, even when it is not born of malice. 

His father unfolds himself from his kneeling position, rising to stand and for a moment, Legolas considers taking his wrist to plead with him for kindness in face of King Bard’s naivete. But he puts his hand back on his lap, curling his fingers. Making a display and drawing even more attention to the matter would only increase his father’s ire. He watches Thranduil making his way towards King Bard who has grown confused by the utter stillness among the elves, his face is drawn in a frown and there is wariness in his gaze. Legolas pities the poor man, for it is never pleasant to be the object of the Woodland King’s wrath. 

Legolas prepares for the shouting to commence, or for the other king being manhandled off the clearing accompanied by cutting words, but neither comes to happen. To Legolas’ amazement, his father grasps the point of King Bard’s elbow gently and steers him away from the altar to the edge of the clearing, whispering in his ear on their way there. There is no anger or irritation on Thranduil’s features as he leans into King Bard to keep his voice unheard. Legolas hardly believes his eyes as he watches them at the edge of the trees, his father grasping the hand of the King of Dale in a reassuring gesture while he presumably explains the customs of the fest to him. The King of Dale’s lips move with urgency, waving the apple he’s still holding in his right. He looks somewhat mortified, probably the magnitude of his blunder has just dawned upon him. But still his father’s anticipated anger never comes, he even rests a hand on King Bard’s shoulder. The other elves have long since resumed the feasting to to take the attention off the uncomfortable situation, determined to act as if nothing happened. Legolas on the other hand has entirely forgotten about his meal; too fascinated by his father’s behaviour that goes against everything he’s ever known about him. To witness such mildness from the infamously hardened Woodland King. And King Bard is not banished from the premises either, to the contrary – his father takes the King of Dale by the elbow once more and guides him back to the party. In the meantime, King Bard’s cheeks and ears have grown redder from embarrassment and he keeps his eyes hefted onto the fallen leaves on the ground. Legolas observes his father throw amused glances at the man at his side – and do his eyes betray him now or is there fondness in his father’s gaze? Fondness for an uneducated, blundering king of men? He could not have imagined such a thing five years ago.

Perhaps he isn’t the only whose heart has thawed under the summer’s last gentle light.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Sara Teasdale's [September Midnight](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/2061)


End file.
